


Nobody, Not Even the Rain

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 07:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11248923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: Crimson covered His mighty form, droplets of ruby blood speckling His wan features in a gory shroud that collected like a sheen with His sweat. He stood, a dark shade before the open mouth of the fireplace, His broad back bare and dark with detris. Eclipsing the light emanating from the hearth He seemed to be encircled with scarlet glow that illuminated the blood and decay caking to His form, like He was outlined with its fury. From where Mairon saw Him, it was not the shadows cast by the dancing fire but His own muscles that made His shoulders shake and His chest heave in ragged expansion. Even from across the room he could hear His breath tear from His lungs savagely, whipping like the roaring blizzard outside of Angband.***Melkor returns to Mairon, after three ages apart.





	Nobody, Not Even the Rain

somewhere I have never traveled

(Poem Excerpt by E. E. Cummings)

***

somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond,

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gestures are things which enclose me,

or which I cannot touch because they are too near.

 

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

 

(I do not know what about you closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.

***

Crimson covered His mighty form, droplets of ruby blood speckling His wan features in a gory shroud that collected like a sheen with His sweat. He stood, a dark shade before the open mouth of the fireplace, His broad back bare and dark with detris. Eclipsing the light emanating from the hearth He seemed to be encircled with scarlet glow that illuminated the blood and decay caking to His form, like He was outlined with its fury. From where Mairon saw Him, it was not the shadows cast by the dancing fire but His own muscles that made His shoulders shake and His chest heave in ragged expansion. Even from across the room he could hear His breath tear from His lungs savagely, whipping like the roaring blizzard outside of Angband.

He watched His imposing form heave and tremble in front of the roaring flames, looked around at the room as if to seek an answer. It was smeared with Ungoliant’s viscous vomit, in blood, and in the debris of Melkor’s all-consuming wrath. His return had not been the blissful reunion like Mairon had spent three ages living for, and the reality of it wrapped frigidly around his spirit, like the inferno that held within him was being submerged in water.

Melkor had stormed the fortress, cursing at the balrogs that had heard His harrowing cries, the cries Mairon had heard and had sent a spear of raw fear spreading through him like being plunged into an icy lake, like being struck by Manwë’s lightning. Mouth dry, pacing at the entrance of Angband for his Master to return had felt like the longest moments of his life, longer than even their three ages apart. Yet, when Melkor had entered He did not so much as look up at His Little Flame and all of Arda dropped under Mairon’s feet as the stygian shadow breezed by Him, as he watched his Master cast not even an apathetic glance.

Melkor had pounded through the halls of Angband, His furious stomping disrupting the carefully balanced peace Mairon had instilled since the outpost’s secret reconstruction. Mairon hadn’t followed Him, and instead he had gazed out through the open doorway of Angband, his carnelian eyes hardened to the thick blanket of snow outside and his Fëa withered and drooped like an old bloom. He later heard that Melkor had slaughtered some lower-ranking orcs on His way to His chambers where He had promptly locked Himself up in for the past two days, attempting to murder anyone who disturbed Him.

The fortress became restless and fearful where before it had been efficient and calm; like a bee’s nest disturbed. Gothmog and Thuringwethil had both looked towards Mairon for some understanding, and all of the orcs and balrogs seemed to hold their tongues around them, as if one wrong word would send the Lieutenant over the edge too. After all, the only one who held sway over Melkor was His faithful second-in-command.

But Mairon knew not what ailed Him, and though he had heard from the balrogs that had rescued Him what had occurred in Valinor and with Ungoliant, and their connection to the famed Silmarils, he did not know _why_ his Master acted with such brutality and such blatant detachment, and to him of all creatures. Had he disappointed Him? Was He afeared of Mairon’s growing influence in command? Had He forgotten him in their ages apart? Did the Valar make Him mad? It nauseated him, sent him shuddering uncontrollably.

It cast a stake in his soul, twisted it cruelly until wretched waves of painful self-loathing gripped Mairon in their tight, unflinching grasp. And in all this time, his Fëa knew that Melkor was close to him, could feel His presence through the walls and even in the very depths of Angband- in the forges. He could not concentrate with the Dissonance of Melkor’s soul, the small inky tendrils of His Fëa smiting his existence. How fell to be reunited at last, only to find Him unwelcoming! He was farther than ever before and it sent shards of agony billowing into Mairon’s soul.

But Mairon composed himself, sat up the past two nights, staying deep in thought and locking himself up much like Melkor had done but without the needless violence. Though doubts gnawed at his soul that he had done something to anger his Master, that paranoia of disappointment-- no! He must only believe it was merely Melkor’s short temper, that He was lashing out without any conscious thought. Something was wrong. _Terribly wrong._ Mairon knew it to be more than just His sudden obsession with a few gems. He was a wounded animal, cornered and desperate.

So, Mairon did not even bother knocking and had shifted forms, letting his Fàna dissolve and melt until he was a soft aurorean vapour that could slip readily under the cracks of the heavy oak door and enter His chambers without so much as a sigh. And now, standing there looking at Melkor as he shifted back into the form he had in Almarin, he knew the deep digging feeling in the pit of his soul was horribly correct; he had been a fool to wait this long, to wallow in his own self-doubts.

He was hunched and shaking still, and peering closer at the blood and filth that coated His skin, Mairon could see swollen and pus-filled gashes around the outside of His arms from being tightly restrained by Ungoliant’s webs. The blanched skin was flushed bright carmine around the infected and weeping contusions, and His back was bruised and crushed in the spots still uncovered by the miscellaneous decay that had spewed from the spider. Mairon nearly crumbled at the sight. For if there was one thing that could make Melkor this paranoid and bloodthirsty, it was the possibility of someone seeing Him weak.  

His Fàna finished shifting, his features settling into a crease between his brows and small crinkles around his lips in worry. He braced himself, his Fëa leaping in its physical shell as he heedfully, slowly approached the hulking form. He let his footsteps sound in the chamber, not wanting to startle Melkor out of His haze, and the heel of his boot muffled on the threads of the rug like an axe on an executioner’s stump. Melkor tensed immediately, and whipped around to come face-to-face with His Lieutenant.

His visage, momentarily surprised someone had slipped behind His barricaded door, twisted quickly and horridly into ire and ferocity, His jet eyes lacking any recognition or focus and His gloved hands tightening into fists. He looked lost and foreign, like He knew not where He was. Melkor’s features were at once strongly hewn marble and a subtle shifting of calm, eerie but intense twilight. Yet there was none of this indistinct beauty, distant as Varda’s stars- it was contorted and furrowed and He looked right through Mairon and made him feel sadistically and numbingly rejected. But he took a single deep breath and swallowed his welling grief before he could drown, dodging the first series of fists that Melkor sent dashing near Mairon’s side as He roared in the closeness of the room;

“Didst I not order thee to _leave me be ?!”_

He said it in a spat, like a foulness had infected His mouth, and Mairon once more was forced to step to the side to avoid being whipped in the face before he turned and caught His arm as His fist continued to soar in the air that he had once occupied.

It seemed Melkor was not even trying to hit him, or that He was too hysterical to properly aim. His throws were sloppy and His footing was unbalanced- even His hands seemed to be loosely closed, His fingers seemingly cramped and spaced. Mairon easily maneuvered around Him and saved his Master from crashing into the nightstand next to His bed and beside the fireplace. Mairon’s stomach lurched, and he was sure if he was a Quendi he would have swooned from dizziness. Despite His listless and ill-aimed punches, Melkor had never once before attempted to harm him, and it made a part of his Fëa shatter.

Sturdily he brought Melkor up, hoisting Him by His bicep that twitched under Mairon’s warm and calloused palm, causing Him to pause and His breath to catch, sucking inwards sharply. Gently, Mairon spoke, as one talks to a scared child.

“Mel, I am afeard,” and Melkor’s eyes widened at the sound of His Precious, “I am afeard of thy actions- hath thou not yearned to see me as I have yearned to see thee?”

Melkor slumped in defeat, then tensed, His features conflicted over some hidden dilemma. Mairon could tell from the fear now unhidden on the shadows of His features and the blank stare in His black eyes that it wasn’t that He didn’t want Mairon to see Him, no, it was that He was in _agony_. His hair fell limply across His back in matted clumps. It was shorn mid-way rather than at His feet, and the tangled raven strands only highlighted His unhealthily sallow skin. Blue veins pulsed and latticed under the thin clammy flesh, His eyes glazed and encircled in a swollen red. He cradled His hands and Mairon, for the first time, saw that they were not clad in gloves as was his assumption, but rather, His hands had been completely and utterly charred, the burning smell making his nostrils sick and forcing out a concerned gasp.

But Melkor heard this and thought not of comfort, but of how pitiful and repulsive He must look, beyond all repair. Once more He was enraged and He slanted His body away from Mairon’s pyretic presence.

“There is nothing to concern thyself with, Lieutenant,” and His formal assertion of Mairon stung like a slap. “I wish only to be left alone. Obey thy Master and scurry, or hath thou become insolent in thy time ruling?”

His voice was gravelly and rough, and it sounded grating to Mairon’s ears. He ignored the meaning of those words in favor of embracing his Master further, his choleric eyes never leaving Melkor’s. His Master refused to look at him, and instead they stared fixedly towards the far end of the room, where a light that was a pure, uncontaminated ivory emanated from a plain wooden box. _Ah, the Silmarils._ Mairon wrapped his arm tighter around Him and He pushed him away with another violent outburst, but its intensity was lost by His shaking and His wobbliness, holding onto the table for support. He was collapsing with over-exertion.

“Why doth thou disobey, contemptuous spirit?! Did thou not pledge to heed mine every word? Avaunt now or I wilt have thee banished!”

His threats were empty, and even Mairon couldn’t ignore the tremor in His voice. His knuckles held onto the wood of the table and became an even sicklier shade of white, and He continued to only ogle in the direction of the Silmarils, and His breath heaved from the effort of His yells.

“Mel,” Mairon spoke, a mere murmur. “That I hath pledged to heed thy beck and call is true; but it is also true that I hath pledged to safeguard thy person, to provide thee succour if times of need should arise.”

Melkor went silent, even His breath was held. He was fighting some battle within Himself and was searching for ways to push the Maia away. But His resolve was broken and His polished eyes filled with the glassy sheen of tears, unfocused now in the space just behind Mairon’s slight form instead of on the glow of the Silmarils. Melkor’s brows furrowed thickly in concentration and His breath was released in a shaky whimper.

Attentively, Mairon once more approached Melkor, and this time He did not push him away when he sunk the Dark Vala in his arms. He continued to cradle His blackened hands as the Maia guided and set Him sitting down on the soft silks of the bed. His Master was without a tunic and Mairon assessed His wounds, the cuts and bruises along the milky expanse of His chest and the sooty and bloodied hands that folded protectively around themselves. His Fëa boiled and he had to swallow down his own choler as his soul nearly burst from his Fàna at the sight of His agony. How he would hunt and kill all who had harmed Him, how he would mercilessly, endlessly torture them!

Melkor let His head fall against Mairon’s shoulder now, let him pull Him tightly in an embrace that was warmer than He had been for a long time. The tense and knotted muscles of His back and shoulders were kneaded, His hair gently tucked from His face. Mairon paused in thought. He did not want to call attention to His weakness, and yet. . . he needed Melkor to acknowledge it if they were going to fix it. So Mairon reluctantly braced himself for yet another onslaught, his Fëa leaking from his body in waves of molten gold, its flames summery and simmering as they tenderly prodded at Melkor’s. Melkor grunted in pain and tried half-heartedly to pull aside, but Mairon held Him too firmly for Him to assay again.

Threads of gold beaded with cardinal and marigold and honey, and he inspected the shade that he had so longed for, yearned for, fantasized of beholding and entwining with. He quavered at the feeling of the midnight darkness around his Master: it was a feeling of _home._ But this was not the Master that left him. Melkor was more closed off, His Fëa less pervasive and diluted. But He could not resist the sultry heat of His Little Flame’s spirit for too long in such a weakened state, and He shuddered when the warm, golden light engulfed Him. He pressed His face into the crook of Mairon’s bronzed neck and moaned as Mairon calmed Him.

But Mairon realized- as he gently investigated Melkor’s soul- the reasoning behind His diminished Fëa. Where Melkor often let the onyx shade collect around Him, let his soul fill the room, it was now secure and only seeped from outside Him in little tendrils. His eyes widened in surprise, and another gasp fell from his lips, for he knew instantly what was wrong. His Master was bound to the flesh, to a Hröa, and He could not change form. But Melkor felt this surprise in Marion’s spirit and He yanked quickly away in startled hurt.

“How dare thee be so bold as to laugh at thy Master!” He shouted, and He stumbled across the rug and turned properly to Mairon, letting out a string of curses in Black Speech.

But Mairon was already there to nurse His insecurities, and his golden soul never left its position as a comforting halo around Melkor, who was sealed into this weakened Hröa. No wonder He had not wanted to come from His rooms, no wonder He was hysterical and quivering and weak and had not healed. He was hungry and cold, wounded and tired, and Mairon felt foolish for being so selfish as to hold back from Him for this long. In truth, Mairon did not think Him weak and did not find jest at Melkor’s state, he only despised himself for not being there quicker. He only looked at Him with compassion and a recognition that Melkor was only lashing out in fear.

But Melkor still angrily tore at the Fëa that compassed Him, and threw a chair that He nearly stumbled over across the room, only to cry out at the pain it brought to His charred hands. Mairon glided towards Him, restraining Melkor when He tried to push him from Him, followed Him down when He sunk onto the floor and let out a strangled cry. Mairon rocked Him and felt numb, soothing Him to soothe himself also at how utterly _broken_ the Vala was. He now sobbed freely into Mairon’s slim shoulder and clutched onto him tightly.

“I would not think of thee as weak, My Lord,” Mairon spake, using His title to embolden Him. “I would never think less of thee.”

He rocked Melkor back and forth again, placating Him until only the sounds of the crackling of the fire in the hearth and those of Mairon’s soul could be heard. They sat like that for a long while, Mairon attempting to be strong for the both of them, steadying himself at the daunting recovery ahead and steeled in determination. Softly he had begun to sing, lyrics from a song he had been taught to sing by Melkor long ago when the construction of Utumno had just finished. The slow rhythm and Mairon’s humming made Him huddle closer.

“I know not what to do,” Melkor said after He was calmed, and He trembled at this pathetic admission. Mairon nuzzled Him softly and cupped His face with one jeweled hand, turning it towards his own so that his Master faced him. Again, Melkor’s eyes were unfocused and veiled with tears, and Mairon dropped kisses to His lined forehead until it smoothed, his Fëa slowly dancing with the thin shade that leaked only in drops from Melkor’s form.

“I will aid thee, Master. Thou needst me to tend to thee and thy wounds. If thou wilt allow me to aid thee in thy new form, then thou wilt find thyself at ease.”

Melkor tightened His clasp on Mairon’s shoulders and nodded stiffly, but Mairon could tell that there was something else clouding His mind and infecting Melkor with panicked terror. His breathing was still hyperventilation, His Fëa still spasmed with a distress the Maia couldn’t pinpoint. But he knew well enough not to push Melkor: for the Vala was nothing if not stubborn. So Mairon waited, and used the sleeve of his velvet robe to wipe the comets of tears from Melkor’s silvery skin, removing dried rot with the salty streaks.

Eventually, Melkor spoke.

“Mairon?” he asked, and Mairon answered by brushing his lips to His temple and humming softly, his fingers massaging His oily scalp. Melkor’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Mairon melted at the sight, for it was apparent He was trying not to weep.

“I,” He spoke, but His hands convulsed and His abdomen quivered, and Mairon felt an oppressive, impending doom. He pressed His contorted face once more to Mairon’s breast, and Mairon whispered only a faint, “What is it, my love?” and caressed Him before Melkor once again wrought the courage to speak.

“I cannot- I can hardly see thee,” He whispered, and His voice cracked. “I can see not a thing but the Silmarils and thine own inferno, now but a dim glow. I _had_ yearned to see thee- I swear it, but the gems hath burned mine hands, and they hath taken mine vision. . . ”

Mairon’s form fought a tremble, his breath thieved and his Fëa spasming with a pulse of electrocuting energy. He looked down at Him, and realized now why His eyes had never found his own, why He had brushed by Mairon when He first entered Angband. Mairon’s tongue stuck and he felt at once that the heavens had crashed upon Him. In his arms, Melkor slunk away in shame and Mairon felt only the intense desire to bring Him closer, felt only more fuel to his Fëa, felt more of his energy gift to Melkor.

He would not shun Him for His blindness, and instead laid two more hot, wet kisses on both tops of the white petals of His eyelids as all of Melkor’s fears and shame became evident. He shushed Him softly when Melkor raised His voice to disparage Himself, and Mairon continued to sing with his Fàna and his Fëa.

Gently, Mairon took His face in both hands and looked into Melkor’s glassy eyes. His Fëa gently enfolded in His and soothed the contained Vala’s spirit. The room burst with flame, molten colors of garnet and wine, coral and amber, saffron and rust and ochre. The flames licked Melkor’s Hröa, but did not harm Him, and they seeped into the very marrow of His aching bones, into every cell in His fleshy prison. They fortified Him, strengthened and invigorated and assured.

“Doth thou remember what I hath said? That thou art not weak; I would never picture thee as shameful. Do not be afeared, we wilt fix this slight against thee, Mighty Arising, and mine own self wilt help thee. I shall craft thee the finest gauntlets like none other before, weave sorcery into the metal to soothe thee. I wilt patch thee and wash thy Hröa, and I shall never leave thee.”

“And,” Mairon whispered, “As for thy vision. . . I wilt gift thee a flame from mine person, some of mine own power. I wilt be thy eyes and thou wilt see through me and mine Fëa.”

Here Melkor tore from his grasp not in anger, but in a deep, all-consuming gratitude and ease and a thousand apologies. With a quick movement He blindly sought Mairon and pressed His lips to where He could best discern Mairon’s to be, and He found the corner of them full and parted. Mairon shifted them correctly and let Him grip his embered hair, let Him tell him everything He could not put into words into his flesh. Mairon was gentle and his Fëa still caressed Him as they broke asunder and pressed themselves together again like the crashing of waves on the shore.

And the brightness of the Silmarils was forgotten in favor of the dim, but golden glow that had always commanded Melkor’s soul.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I attempted to write in the same Archaic English that "The Silmarillion" was written in, forgive me if some of it was incorrect, it is my first time writing in such away!  
> I have thought a lot about the eye symbolism of Sauron in "Lord of the Rings" and thought it would be interesting to have it start out as a way to help Melkor see if He was blind. What would He do without his Little Flame to calm Him? Sometimes Mairon is a little too hard on himself though. :)  
> As always, I would love to hear what you think!  
> ***


End file.
